Me Tarzan — You Jane
Camelia Miron Skiba
Publication date: December 6th 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance
2015 DREAMS Awards Finalist
2015 RONE Award Finalist
Moving on doesn’t always have to mean goodbye.
Widowed makeup artist Jane Sullivan is more comfortable keeping her husband’s memory alive than dating a pool full of sharks. Ella, her 4 year-old daughter, is her whole world.
When Jane meets Lucas Oliver, famous cover model, it’s hate at first sight. His playboy persona rubs her the wrong way.
Accustomed to every woman fawning over him, Lucas is drawn to the shy, uncompromising single mom and completely melts at the sight of Ella. He is determined to convince Jane that sometimes a second chance can mend a broken heart.
Heavy footsteps behind me warn Lucas is awake. My heart pounds when I glance at him. Barefooted, he strolls in wearing only dark jeans low on his toned hips, zipped but not buttoned, partially revealing black, David Beckham underwear. Water glistens in his messy hair, still damp from the shower. A red sweater lands on the countertop in front of the fridge, which he leaves open while he finishes one bottle of water. He goes for a second bottle, his bare, muscle-ripped chest camera perfect.
“Enjoying what you see?” Lucas leans against the fridge, muscles shifting on his abdomen and arms. He’s not smiling, but rather defiant looking.
“I hate to bring it to your attention, but there’s a girl in this house, and I’d appreciate if you wore clothes at all times. Thank you.” As to confirm my words Ella’s laughter penetrates through the window.
“And I hate to bring it to your attention, but last night I wasn’t hitting on you. You’re not my type.” His freshly shaved jaw twitches, and it’s the last I see before he turns his back on me, pulling things out of the fridge. From jam to cheese and sausages, cold cuts and fruits, the countertop turns into a display of colors and aromas. Next he spreads butter on a croissant and finishes it in two, quick bites. He hasn’t touched anything he took out of the fridge, gorging himself on croissants and butter, all the while cocking an eyebrow.
I’m tempted to say “sour grapes” but it’s probably not a good idea. He’s pissed off and I like to believe my refusal to fall in his arms is the reason why. I go for, “Thanks for clarifying that for me. I was worried you were in for a heartbreak.”
“You wish,” Lucas says between bites. He looks like a hamster with food stuffed on both sides of his mouth. He hasn’t closed the fridge’s door but walks away to the coffee pot. I’ll never understand why people leave the fridge open. Can’t stand it, and decide to go close it before he returns to clog his arteries. One quick move and the door is closed, but I don’t move fast enough. When I turn to walk away, Lucas hovers over me. My eyes level with his lower chest. The fridge feels cold against my back. I look up at him and swallow hard. The man is just overpowering and insanely sexy.
He smirks. “Can’t stay away from me?”
“You’re wasting energy.” At least my voice doesn’t tremor.
Lucas’s left hand comes up as if to touch my face, but instead it rests above my head, on the fridge. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m just thoughtful of other people’s property.”
“Perfect Jane. How many Nobel Prizes have you received so far?”
“You’re such a conceited jerk. How can you stand yourself?” I lift my chin and prop my palms on his chest, forcing him to move off me. The more I struggle the more he laughs, a devilish and loud laugh.
Ever since I began writing and publishing books I’ve been on the run, always trying to write the next page, the next chapter, the next book. Every story was another journey, another discovery of what I could do and another evolution. All these years my motto was it doesn’t matter who I am or where I come from, but what I leave behind is. I thought I have it all figured out.
Socrates, one of the biggest philosophers to ever grace humanity once said, “I am talking a crock of s***.” I had no idea this expression dated hundreds of years ago and belongs to him, but who am I to argue with him? Needless to say, after some soul searching I realized my motto was a . . . pot of smelly stuff. I had a meltdown because, if you think about it, why would what I leave behind matter more than who I am here and now in this very moment? How will I ever know if what I left behind mattered with no way of seeing it? How am I gonna enjoy it? Think Socrates; does he know how much he touched humankind? Does he know people still remember him centuries later? And if he knows, does it make a difference?
I’m not sure. Frankly I doubt with all my heart it makes any difference to him. He’s gone, like I’ll be gone one day and instead of beating myself up to leave something behind me, I’m going to learn how to live here, now and totally enjoy it. No more worrying about tomorrow, but live today. No more five-year plans, but rather let the sun soak my skin, the air fill my lungs and the grass touch my feet. After all, I only live once.
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